


this time I might just disappear

by LightningNymph



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Character-centric, F/M, FE3H Kinkmeme, Grief/Mourning, Mentioned Claude von Riegan, Past Character Death, Routine, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25015711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningNymph/pseuds/LightningNymph
Summary: Written for theFE3H Kink Meme.Every morning, bright and early, she gets up, gets a quick bath, and starts cooking breakfast. Something hearty, enough to give anyone enough fuel to be ready for the day. She eats it alone, now, but she still catches herself laying out two plates every morning, without fail.
Relationships: Flayn/Dedue Molinaro
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	this time I might just disappear

**Author's Note:**

> Took a long time writing this because I knew I wanted a present-day/past contrast but wasn't sure what I wanted the present-day to be like. Worked it out in the end, though!

Every morning, bright and early, she gets up, gets a quick bath, and starts cooking breakfast. Something hearty, enough to give anyone enough fuel to be ready for the day. She eats it alone, now, but she still catches herself laying out two plates every morning, without fail.

_“I wouldn’t miss your cooking for the world,” Dedue said, even as it got more and more difficult to get up in the mornings, his joints creaking.  
“It is hardly as good as yours, still. Perhaps I will never quite manage --”  
“Don’t dismiss your talents like that. You’re a fine cook by your own merit, and you will only get better as you practice.”_

Once the dishes have been done, she opens the double-doors wide, letting the fresh air into her house, and grabs her gardening equipment from the shed. The vegetable patch gets attention first, then the herbs next to them, but she spends most of her time after that on the many flowers that grow around the house. Weeding, watering, plucking dead leaves and flowers, putting in new seeds. Her gardening skills are less than her cooking, but for the most part, she’s learned enough to keep everything looking as beautiful as ever.

_“You cannot see them anymore, can you?” she asked one afternoon, pausing with her gardening shears halfway to trimming a hydrangea shrub. “The flowers, I mean.”  
“I can see the colors,” Dedue said after a moment, from his chair right next to the door. He hadn’t been able to help in years, not since his back gave out and she had to carry him inside, but he insisted on staying near her. “But... my eyesight’s been getting worse. I can’t make out the flowers themselves, anymore. They’re too far away.”  
“...I’m sorry.”  
“Don’t be. It’s just age.”  
She ended up cutting some of the flowers and putting them in a vase, inside. He smiled when he saw them up close._

Once the garden is in shape again, she puts her things away and, after a quick scrub to get rid of any stray dirt and putting away any ripe veggies from the garden, puts on some shoes and goes into town to check for any correspondence for the two of them. There usually isn’t any, but she likes to stay on top of it anyway.

_Another letter, sent by courier, directly to their home. King Khalid of Almyra had passed after a long sickbed.  
It hadn’t felt that long ago to her that they got word he was ill.  
It hadn’t even felt that long since they went to school together, and she’d called him Claude.  
She’d hugged Dedue and cried and cried, while he held her as tightly as he still could and stroked her hair.  
That evening, once she’d finally managed to dry her tears, she abruptly felt that Dedue was a year older than Claude. While she had grown accustomed to age creeping up on him, death was right behind._

By the afternoon, Flayn gets something quick to eat for lunch and sets about cleaning the house. It’s fairly easy with just _the two of them_ her living in the house, but it’s easier to keep up with. She sweeps and mops, does the laundry, gets rid of the cobwebs she can reach, and sets about dusting every surface she can find. She still catches herself trying to keep her voice down humming while she works, though there’s no one to wake anymore.

_“I like listening to your voice while you work.”  
“But it keeps you awake when you try to listen!” She crossed her arms, puffing up. “You need your rest, Dedue, and I will not interfere with that!”  
Dedue chuckled, shaking his head, but seemed to concede the point._

The late afternoons and evenings are hers. She fishes ( _and misses having someone around to talk to about what the fishing was like today_ ), or paints ( _her work has grown significantly more melancholy since... well_ ), or takes a walk ( _she talks out loud sometimes like she used to, even though there’s no longer anyone to answer_ ).

Off and on, there’s a villager knocking on the door, seeking her healing skills for a difficult birth or a child or spouse at death’s door, and she always goes with to help them, and always feels like she’s forgotten something when she doesn’t call out she’ll be back soon as she’s leaving.

_“I wish I could do more,” Flayn murmured, as the bright white light of a healing spell being performed faded.  
“You’ve done enough,” Dedue said, shaking his head.  
“You are still in pain...”  
“Less pain than before. None that I can’t handle.”  
He’s lying; she knows it. But she lets the subject go, even as it gnaws at her heart._

When the sun is almost under the horizon, Flayn walks outside again. Behind their house, past the garden, is a great chestnut tree. Underneath it, between its roots, lies a simple gravestone.

Every night, she goes to it, cleans the stone, checks if the flowers need replacing or fresh water, and sits cross-legged opposite it, speaking to it as though Dedue can still hear her. She likes to imagine he can.

She tells him what happened today, about what info the letters their remaining friends sent contained, about the state of the garden and their children and grandchildren, and anything that comes to mind, as the remaining light fades away.

When it’s almost too dark to see, she gets up, brushes the dust off her dress, and heads back inside, slipping into bed.

And tomorrow she’ll set out breakfast with two plates again.


End file.
